I began my golfing career (cough) at the age of 50, only five-years ago. Just my way of confessing that I’m a legitimate hack. The only thing that would make me look worse when I swing, is having my trousers fall to my ankles while poised in my follow through stance during the ball’s-flight. Take that visual any way you wish.
As the first day of real summer seemed to land the other day, I decided it was time to swing a club again. My favorite short pants were chosen. I’ve worn them from the beaches of the Philippines to the mountains of Montana, and nothing has felt so right on my bones as these well worn shorts … until my first tee-off this day.
Snap. Bloop. Holy Shhh … FORE!
It’s much harder to hit the fairways if you’re inadvertantly mooning a foursome at the advanced tee box behind you.
This went on for 9-holes. Whether I bent over to pick up a ball, leap a creek, stretch a hamstring or stymie a chuckle on my own behalf, my pants would snap open, forcing my knees apart, to catch my falling, failed garment.
My waist-size used to equal my age–back when that was a good thing–when neither number was close to 40.
Ah yes, the early pant years: my 30’s, 32’s, hell, even the 36’s –what a summer those bell bottomed Calvin Clines had at that String Cheese concert. But, somewhere between age 50 and today, my belt size seems bent on keeping up with my age.
My only recourse, should the two numbers ever again match up, would be to simply embrace clown pants. One, fat-size-fits-all pair would be a comfort; and naturally, no one on a golf course (of all places) would think twice about seeing a man in polkadots and a red nose, juggling some balls.